


Little by Little

by Yachtly



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age II, Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Angst/Hurt, Comfort, Fluff, Hopefully Slow Burn, Hurt, M/M, Mentions of homophobia, Mentions of past abuse, POV Third Person, Past Abuse, Slow Burn, i just want Cullen to be bi so, mage trauma, mentions of abuse, minor Trevelyan/Cullen Rutherford, mostly angst, pov switching
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-07-10
Updated: 2018-07-10
Packaged: 2019-06-08 10:27:03
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,506
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15241383
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Yachtly/pseuds/Yachtly
Summary: Gideon Hawke is dead.After the battle at Adamant, morale is low and the Inquisition mourns Hawke’s sacrifice. Things seem to be returning to normal upon the return to Skyhold until an unexpected guest arrives the morning of Livius Erimond’s judgement.How does Anders arrival affect Skyhold and her inhabitants, and how does he heal from the loss of the man he loved?A Tevinter Altus makes an unlikely friend, and an unlikely infatuation. But while Anders forms bonds quickly, Dorian excels at pushing people away.How will the two match up?(Please read this entire thing in a movie announcer voice. I got tired at the end)





	Little by Little

Gideon Hawke was dead. 

 

The journey back from Adamant fortress was a quiet, mourning one for the Inquisition. With the Wardens, under the watch of Alistair, in tow, they retreated back towards Skyhold. It would be a long trek, especially for the small group at the front of the pack that joined the Inquisitor.

 

Dorian Pavus always thought Inquisitor Trevelyan was rather personable. He was nice, but witty, and took special time to check in with each and every member of their team back at Skyhold each time he made it back. Sometimes, there were multiple rounds, and Dorian himself considered Elias a close friend. But when they ventured out of Skyhold, Trevelyan usually kept to an occasionally rotating roster of Solas, Cole, Cassandra, and Dorian himself.

 

Dorian always thought it was a slightly odd tactic. Elias, being a mage himself, always keeping at least one other mage in his party. Solas was almost a permanent fixture as well, unless they needed a Warrior, or someone else specifically requested to come along. Cole was as permanent as Dorian, and over the months, they’d grown close. There was still some tension between him and the apostate elf, not that he didn’t try. Solas was just as good at driving away possible moments of closeness between them as he was.

 

Their odd mix of party members made their brief tumble into the Fade even more interesting. Alistair was a Warrior, and Hawke has been a rogue. Devilishly quick with both his blades and his tongue, Dorian had been growing to like the man’s company. He’d talked a lot.

 

Dorian scoffed at that. He knew he was one to talk just for the sound of his own voice, but Hawke’s penchant against silence rivaled even his own. He spun tales to rival Varric’s, but they usually featured the same characters. Those elusive figures from Kirkwall, the ones Dorian had briefly read about. He’d never admit to Varric that he’d read his Tale of the Champion, much less that he’d enjoyed if, but he had. The characterization had been nearly spot on.

 

What had been the most unnerving was the resemblance between Gideon and Elias. The men were close in build, but Elias was both taller and broader despite his being a mage. Dark skin, red-toned hair, piercing eyes, and right-centered facial scars. Of course, the two had many differences, but for a few moments, Gideon looked a little too much like Elias for comfort. Like when he turned away from the group and ran, weapons drawn, towards the giant maw of the Nightmare.

 

Dorian swallowed hard, fist clenching around his staff as he walked. Every time he thought about it - the strong figure, red-haired, determined - sprinting back to sacrifice himself for the rest of them, he felt his stomach drop. He thought he’d lost his friend. And in that moment, in the green-sick Fade, he froze.

 

But Alistair and Trevelyan ran up, and tugged Dorian along through the Fade Rift. And Gideon Hawke was as good as dead.

 

Trevelyan took it hard. With every night they stopped to rest, he went one more night without rest, or so it seemed. Occasionally, Dorian tried to stay up to keep him company, but would wake up in the morning, a blanket around his shoulders. He kicked himself every time, but Trevelyan seemed to find it funny. At least Dorian could still wring a smile out of him.

 

A courier had been sent back to Skyhold with the news. The Advisors would know of their trip into the Fade. Varric would know of Hawke’s death, and send word out to those who needed to know. If Dorian remembered correctly, the man had a sister alive, a lover, a collection of friends...

 

Silence had overtaken their group, as usual, but Dorian knew now wasn’t the time to break it. Sometimes, silence was necessary. The clink of armor behind them, the shuffle of buckles, and the occasional snort of their steeds were the only things that separated them from the bleak, damp forest around them.

 

If Dorian was watching the maps correctly, they’d well escaped the Western Approach and were nearing the border between the Emerald Graves and Emprise du Lion. He was less excited about the latter location, despising both the plummeting temperatures and the cold boiling sensation that radiated the place- the plague of red Lyrium.

 

Beside them, a dark horse rode up, her rider a familiar flash of fur and curly blonde hair. Cullen fell into a steady trot beside the Inquisitor, and Dorian watched as Trevelyan’s demeanor instantly changed. He couldn’t help but scoff.

 

The Inquisitor had been sporting a very painful and very obvious crush on the Commander for months now. Cullen had either not noticed or elected to ignore it, and Dorian was nearly positive he didn’t swing that way anyway, but it was always heartening to see the Herald of Andraste reduced to a desperately flirting mess around the awkward and oblivious Commander. It made him seem more human.

 

After their short chat, Elias nodded, and Cullen reared his horse back to shout back orders to stop. It was about time to rest up for the night, which Dorian praised. The longer they could stay away from the damned snow the better.

 

Setting up camp took less and less time each night. Repetition. Sliding from the horse, holding the harness just so, so the stubborn buckle would let loose instead of sticking the way it had the first couple nights. Tents were a breeze now, and Dorian always made sure to send a puff of air inside his to freshen it up and give it a little heat.

 

Elias was setting up his own space beside Dorian, stroking the flank of his obnoxious, yet regal, Red Hart.

 

“How’s your paramour?” Dorian asked, a teasing lilt to his voice as he settled by the growing fire. He gave it a burst of flame, which Elias quietly thanked him for. Trevelyan favored spirit magic to anything elemental anyway.

 

The Inquisitor huffed, “I’m not sure how much more forward I could be. I very plainly asked him if he was looking for anything. Relationship wise I mean. Well I guess I wasn’t that specific... do you think he might have misunderstood?”

 

Dorian turned to glance at Elias and couldn’t help but let out a small laugh. The man was an enigma. Absolutely stunning, rich dark skin, lightly freckled, with deep red hair shaved short over half of his head, longer over the left side of his face. He had a thick, full beard, well-groomed and rivaled by few he knew. A few somewhat fresh scars from the battle at Haven cut through a pale tattoo under his warm amber eyes. If he’d been interested, Dorian would have, without a doubt, pursued him, but he and Elias were better as friends. And anyway, if he’d had Elias, he wouldn’t have anyone to watch fumble after Cullen. His appearance was so ruggedly handsome, so striking, Dorian often forgot how mild-mannered the man could be. 

 

“My dear Inquisitor, I’m quite sure it would be possible for Cullen to misunderstand your intentions if you said the words, ‘I want you to take me across the War Table’ directly to him,” Dorian chuckled, taking a seat in front of the fire. Elias settled down beside him, and across the fire, Solas had already settled to go over what looked like old charts. Cole would pop up at some point during the night. He usually did.

 

“Well if you phrase it that way, of course he’d misunderstand,” Solas chimed, a knowing smirk growing at the corner of his mouth. He always looked so smug, and Dorian could never quite decide if he liked the elf or not. “He might assume you’d like him to educate you on the more interesting geography of Thedas-“

 

Dorian barked a laugh as Trevelyan groaned, “I just wish there were a way to be straightforward-“

 

“Well there is one way,” Dorian began, raising a finger up and opening his mouth to continue.

 

“A civil way!” Trevelyan laughed, running a hand through his hair, “I’d like it if, regardless of the outcome here, we could still have our Commander.”

 

“Oh yes, we all know you’d like to have our Commander,” Dorian jested, earning a more open smile from Solas across the fire.

 

Trevelyan waved a hand in defeat, “If you won’t give me any decent advice, I’ll just have to wait until we’re back to Skyhold to ask someone else.”

 

Solas scoffed, “Like who? The Iron Bull?”

 

“Or Blackwall?” Dorian countered.

 

“Vivienne?”

 

“Oh, I know, Sera!”

 

“You really should ask Cassandra-“

 

Dorian had dissolved into laughter before Solas could even finish the thought, and beside him, Trevelyan had buried his head in his hands. He shook his head, but there was a clear smile on his face, “Well I sure as hell can’t ask Varric.”

 

“No, no,” Dorian grinned. “ _Please_ ask Varric.”

 

Trevelyan releases a great sigh, then shook his head, more solemn again, “No... no, I can’t really ask anything of him any time soon. Not after this.”

 

“Elias, nobody was honestly expecting you to ask the dwarf for love advice,” Dorian attempted.

 

“I know that, I’m just saying otherwise-“

 

“Otherwise he’s still your friend-“

 

“Hawke was a better friend to him. I hope he’ll understand, but...” Trevelyan presses his knuckles against his mouth, “I’m sorry. We were laughing. Ruined it.”

 

Solas hummed quietly, glancing back at his charts, and Dorian found himself at a loss for words. The soft crackle of the fire filled the void that filled the space where their voices had just danced. Embers swirled up towards the tree-shrouded sky. Pines and boughs blocked the view of most of the stars, but a few peered through diligently, and occasionally, the wind would allow pale moonlight to come play along the forest floor.

 

“He said his life was hard,” Cole’s voice snapped the two men to attention, but Solas remained still as though he’d already noticed their elusive friend. “All he wanted was for him to be happy... after it all. He didn’t think he deserved it... he told you that, and he died-“

 

“Cole,” Trevelyan’s low voice was steady, carrying a note of warning.

 

“I couldn’t feel his thoughts when he ran. The Nightmare. The Fade. So wrong. Marred... mangled, missing. I was missing it was missing me, I was wrong there,” he took pause. Against the firelight, his features looked even more gaunt, the circled under his eyes were pure darkness, the creases around his nose and mouth were lengthened.

 

Trevelyan just nodded, then stood, “I’ll be back. Need to check on a couple things.”

 

“Inquisitor things?” Dorian offered.

 

“Inquisitor things,” Trevelyan nodded, then disappeared towards the spotted flames of the troops camps.

 

“The Inquisitor,” Cole started again, “He hurts so much, but he holds it close. Doesn’t let me help. He brought me here to help. Why won’t he let me?”

 

At that, Solas folded his papers down towards his chest and glanced at Cole, “He’s had a lot happen to him in a very short time. He needs more time, more than just words and thoughts.”

 

“Yes, well most of us do,” Dorian sighed, staring towards the fire for a moment. He waved a hand, surging more heat into it so it flared upwards, a flurry of sparks shooting into the air, “But you do help, Cole. Little by little.”

 

•••

 

Skyhold.

 

Weeks later they’d managed to escape the worst of the cold to reach Skyhold. The fortress always seemed to hold more warmth than made sense, given the surrounding climate, but Dorian wasn’t complaining. As soon as their mounts were settled, he took the quickest route back to his chambers for a well needed bath.

 

It was a small luxury, something he always allowed himself to enjoy after journeys with the Inquisitor. A long soak with various oils and soaps, some he’d brought with him from Tevinter while others he’d picked up in various markers throughout Orlais, always reminded him of home and gave a little normalcy to his increasingly unpredictable life.

 

He always found himself discovering new marks across his skin. The occasional freckle, a faint scar. Before he’d left Tevinter, he had been relatively unmarked, save for a few old scars from his admittedly clumsy childhood, but since joining the Inquisition, he found his arms especially lines with pale scars. A larger one crossed his collar bone from their first impromptu encounter with a dragon. It had been that Ferelden beast in the Hinterlands, and Dorian was sure he would have avoided the encounter has Bull not been there to egg Elias on. As soon as they’d set foot in its territory, the dragon had struck him with flame, scorching his skin and distracting him enough that one of the equally menacing dragonlings had a chance to rear up and claw him across the chest.

 

Elias made sure to keep a barrier around him for the remainder of the match and apologized profusely afterwards, but the scar remained. Both Elias and Solas were skilled spirit healers and could protect and revive, but neither of them had seemed to master the more intricate art of healing. Not that Dorian was one to speak. He’d always been better at reanimating than reviving, and that wasn’t any more helpful at keeping them from bleeding out in a fight.

 

It wasn’t as if he went completely unwashed during their little escapades, in fact Dorian prided himself on his ability to remain well-kept throughout the duration of their journeys. But this was different. The water was warm, the herbal, earthy scents of the soaps and oils worked tension from his shoulders in a way a quick scrub from a basin never could. And he was alone. Even in the comfort of his own tent at night, he never felt truly alone unless he was back in his quarters. Secure. Walled-in. He was able to scrub off what remained of the journey, both physically and emotionally.

 

Weeks of mourning took its toll. Maybe it would have been different if they hadn’t travelled with Hawke, or if the man hadn’t been so damned charming. Trevelyan has gone back and forth. What if it had been different. What if Alistair has stayed behind? From what Dorian understood, it was a split second decision. Alistair was vital to rebuilding the Grey Wardens. There was no other senior member, and while Hawke was important, while he had a life and people to leave behind, Trevelyan had made the diplomatic decision. He’d done what he should have, as the Inquisitor.

 

Dorian sighed, finally drawing himself from the bath as the water began to cool. He had a very lightly scented moisturizer, something he felt he was in dire need of after the journey through the cold. His skin wasn’t used to the brittle air of the south. It was back to a routine, the comfortable regularity of Skyhold. Moisturizer, kohl liner, styling his hair, dressing. He double checked his eyeliner before heading down to the kitchens to grab a bite to eat. An apple would suffice until a larger meal.

 

He crossed up into the main hall and caught sight of Elias speaking with Varric. The Inquisitor pulled Varric into a hug, and the dwarf swore quietly.

 

With that, Dorian retreated up to the library and into his usual alcove. It wasn’t long before Trevelyan found his way up and leaned against the bookshelf there.

 

“Varric’s already sent word out about Hawke,” he muttered, “To his sister. To his friends.”

 

“Well writing is his forte, if I remember correctly,” Dorian sighed. “Are you... alright?”

 

“I... Hawke is dead,” Trevelyan stated flatly as though Dorian wouldn’t have already known.

 

“The Fade is an ordeal under normal circumstances. To be the only real thing there... beyond description,” Dorian noted, “That any of us made it out alive is difficult to believe. That _you_ made it out? A miracle.”

 

Trevelyan sighed, “Yes, well, I only wish... well, you know.”

 

“Yes,” Dorian hummed, “Why don’t we play a round of chess. Or have a drink. Something to distract you.”

 

“I wish I could, but I’ve got to make my rounds. I need to... gather my courage a bit, calm down so I can remain impartial,” he ran a hand through his hair, a gesture Dorian knew meant the man was beyond exasperated. “I’ve got to judge Erimond later. I know now invoking the Rite of Tranquility on Alexius was wrong, and I’m sorry for that. I should have known better, but... What he did, what we saw, Dorian-“

 

“While I appreciate the sentiment, Elias, you’re a mage. I’m still shocked you’d consider it at all,” Dorian felt himself tense slightly. He remembered yelling at Trevelyan shortly following his former Mentor’s hearing. He could have been killed, imprisoned, kept on for research. But instead... he shook his head, “I take it you’d like not to make that mistake again?”

 

“It’d be unwise,” Trevelyan said, arms crossing and brow furrowing as he took on a more formulated tone, one Dorian knew meant he was thinking politically. “Having sided with so many mages, and trying to set an example as a mage myself-“

 

“To say nothing of general decency and morality,” Dorian supplied.

 

Trevelyan smirked, shaking his head slightly, “Yes. I know. I just can’t think of anything useful for him while he lives. Need to take my mind off of it, but not too much. I’ll make my rounds.”

 

“Tell Cullen I said hello, and that I’m looking forward to our next game of chess,” Dorian smirked. “And I look forward to your verdict. Wouldn’t miss it.”

 

Trevelyan waved a hand dismissively, crossing to the railing and peering down, “Ah. We have a new mural in the makings. I swear Solas doesn’t sleep. I’ll see you later, Dorian.”

 

“Likewise, my friend,” Dorian waved as Trevelyan summoned a barrier and and unceremoniously hopped over the railing. There was a small yelp from Solas below as the Inquisitor clattered onto his desk, and Dorian heard the elf curse in his native tongue.

 

“Would you please stop doing that,” Solas’s hiss echoed throughout the rotunda.

 

Dorian chuckled, returning to his examination of Skyhold’s library. Once again, back to routine.

 

•••

 

The main hall was full the following morning when Trevelyan finally summoned Livius Erimond to be judged. Dorian couldn’t help the curl of disgust in his gut as he watched the man. That was what the world thought of Tevinter. That cowardly, egotistical man, bowing so openly to Corypheus. It only made him want to reform more, to fix the land from where he came.

 

He didn’t hear Erimond’s argument. Just that he said something about having glory in death. A smug sort of look settled over Trevelyan as he sentenced him to imprisonment, solitary, for the rest of his life to prolong his death. Of course, the man deserved worse, but he seemed annoyed enough by the verdict as he was dragged out.

 

The grand doors had hardly closed. Rain poured outside, dark and foreboding. Trevelyan sighed, standing from the Inquisitor’s throne, when the doors opened once more.

 

All eyes moved to the door where two figures entered, followed by a couple Inquisition guards, drawing their weapons. The first figure, a dark-skinned elf with a shock of white hair, hefted a blade longer than himself from his back with ease and swung it to protect the other figure. He was tall, hooded, and swung a staff out from behind him with practice. The end met the ground and both he and the elf were surrounded by barriers. For a moment, Dorian could have sworn the tattoos on the elf flared to life.

 

Who in Andraste’s name were these people?

 

From across the room, Varric let out a cross between a chuckle and a groan, “Andraste’s tits-“

 

The hood came off, revealing a slightly older human. Pale, freckled skin with long strawberry blonde hair grown out to his shoulders. His jaw was lined with stubble and he had a proud, thin nose with a bit of a crook in it. His eyes were tired, but not from the travel, the bruises there seemed permanent. There was an angry haze around him, a crack in the Fade Dorian had never felt in another being before. Not even Solas with all his quirks.

 

“Are you the Inquisitor,” the man barked at Trevelyan, but it wasn’t a question. It was an accusation.

 

“I Uh,” Trevelyan began eloquently before crossing his arms. He didn’t have his cane with him, not that he needed one to cast a barrier. “I am. Who’s asking.”

 

“My name is Anders,” the mage said with finality, “The one who blew up the Kirkwall Chantry. Started the rebellion? Maybe you’ve heard of me. I’ve heard of you.” He strode across the room, menacing elf in tow. He backpedaled in front of Elias, resolve cracking just slightly as he spat, “ _You_ killed my husband.”

**Author's Note:**

> Some dialogue borrowed from in game. 
> 
> all my work is un-beta’d and edited by me myself and I. Pls go easy on me.


End file.
